Aftermath
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Introspective piece following set towards the end of Son of Coma Guy. House reflects on what happened back in Atlantic City. A bit HouseCuddy


Aftermath

By Barbara Barnett

House stood at the windowed door unblinking, watching through devastated eyes. Waiting. Transference. Transplant. One life for another. An non-exchangeable gift. Unconditional. Permanent. Suffering for living. Death freely given in exchange for the hope of a future of less pain. For both parties. An attractive proposition. A love offering. A sin offering. A peace offering.

They'd all heard the tale. Dr. Caustic wakes up coma guy. Vegetative state guy. Sorry. Vegetative State Guy. Last detail-esque road trip to Atlantic City. Figures. House would spirit away a father's last chance to talk to his son. They could see it; believe it. House would have his own agenda, they new. Heard that some detective was around snooping about House's drug use. Good. 'Bout time. Probably bolted to Atlantic City to get out of the kitchen. Away from the heat. Cold. Really cold. Caluclating and heartless. Well, that's House, what'd you expect.

Killed the guy's what I heard. Wouldn't be surprised. Didn't he off Ezra Powell, too? Regular Kevorkian, House is these days. Dr. Caustic, meet Dr. Death.

House heard a thump from behind him, jarring him from his thoughts. He turned towards the sound, only to see nothing there. A thud. The thud. The sound of a 6'2" falling body as it hits the carpeted floor in a heap. Dying. An unmistakable sound. He keeps hearing it, has heard it now five times at least, since the original unnerving thud back in Atlantic City. Playing on his already frayed nerves. He senses his sanity slipping away in a chaos of questions asked by a pursuer who seems to lurk at every turn; around every corner. You aren't paranoid if they're out to get you. He can do nothing to stop it. This is what true powerlessness feels like. He remembers this feeling; despises it. Runs from it, with no place to which he can quite flee from it. He's running out of options and he has a fatalistic sense about what the future hold for him. An end to his journey.

If Tritter really wanted to get him, now, House supposed, he could get him real good. And for a long, long time. Gabriel Wozniak is dead. Suicide. On a road trip. With House. Two and two does equal four. And he suspects that Tritter can do the math. He's not an idiot. Just an ass.

The surgery finished. A success. Another life saved. Maybe his last one. It's hollow. A life for a life. One saved; one sacrificed. His own life over. He's pretty sure that's the way it will eventually go down, no matter how hard and long he protests his innocence; no matter how many lies Wilson tells Tritter. He is so screwed. It's over. He can see himself in a year's time: the Buraku of some New Jersey Prison. Working in the prison library until they need his special expertise. Hey weren't you a doctor once? Some sort of cracked genius, famous doctor? What's wrong with this guy? House shuddered at image momentarily as he turned. Right into Cuddy's path.

"An opened bottle of aspirin was found near the body." She knew he was complicit. At least. Cuddy turned and walked away. He wanted to tell her. So much. He hadn't taken it lightly, this deed. Had there been another way. Had there been any other hope… A life for a life. Had she never had to make that choice? He was certain that she had. And that's why no yelling. No dressing down. Just resignation, tinged with a hint of disgust. Why should he be the only one feeling that way? Gabe was a good guy. Smart. Suffered no fools. One evening with him and House was certain of that. And House admired him for it. For showing him what it looked like; what it felt like. Love with no agenda; with no conditions attached. Pure parental love. House's sudden knowledge of its existence made him shudder. Feel his isolation even more keenly.

The operating theatre was now empty, clean and ready for the next surgery. Gabe taken to the morgue, minus one heart; Kyle in recovery with a second chance at living. House sat, exhausted, in his Eames Chair. He'd been unable to go home for days now. Unable to face the chaos in his apartment. Equally unable to clean it up. It would be several more days until his cleaning service appeared on its regular day and then he could go home. Until then, the Eames chair and physicians' locker room would have to serve his basic needs.

The sound made him jump. Woke him from the light sleep to which he'd become accustomed. Not a thud this time. Just the thump of his glass and metal office door closing. House opened one eye, seeing her in the dim light. Didn't she ever go home? He thought perhaps if played possum, feigning sleep, she'd simply go away. The last thing he craved now was her kind and disappointed gaze. The second to last thing he wanted was her anger. He simply wanted her to go away and leave him alone.

House felt her presence near his feet. She sat on the ottoman; he instinctively moving his feet to give her leave and room to do so. He was too tired; too dispirited to conjure words harsh enough to send her away. "I'm sorry, House."

When he didn't respond, Cuddy began to stand; to leave. She didn't quite know what to say to make what he did anything other than what it was. They had, all of them, been there in one way or another. It was an occupational risk; a grave responsibility. A rock and hard place, whatever. She couldn't sanction his actions. But she did understand them. And, in her heart, agreed with him. "You were right to do it, House. You did the right thing, you know."


End file.
